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THE DISPENSATION 



AND OTHER PLAYS 



BY 
CLAY M. GREENE 



GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



?a 



Copyright, 1914 
By George H. Dorax Company 



APR -4 I9W 



Irs,** 

©CI.A371249 



AUTHOR'S NOTE: 

This little book is published only because good 
friends in The Lambs who liked the plays when 
they heard them at club gambols, suggested it. So 
I dedicate it to them for what it is worth, in the 
hope that their judgment was not misplaced, should 
others, not so friendly, happen to read it. 

C. M. G. 



" The Dispensation " may not be 
used for public presentation except 
by special arrangement with the 
author. 



THE DISPENSATION 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



CHARACTERS 

His Holiness the Pope. 

Cardinal Sitelu. 

Cardinal Ravenna. 

Joseph Vestani, a Missionary Priest of Roumania. 



THE DISPENSATION 

Scene.- — Private Audience Chamber of His Holi- 
ness the Pope, a dignified solemn room with 
hangings of deep red, and embroidered with 
the Papal insignia. The Papal throne is on 
a low dais on L. of stage, over which is a 
heavy canopy of red, emblazoned with the 
Papal insignia in gold. There is an arched 
doorway C. with heavy curtains and a door 
R. similarly closed with draperies. Above 
the R. D. is a small altar, with golden crucifix 
and lighted candles. At rise of curtain, 
Cardinal Sitelli is discovered kneeling in 
prayer at the altar. When the curtain is up, 
he rises, crosses himself, and goes a little to L. 
At the same time Cardinal Ravenna enters 
hastily R. and stops on seeing Sitelli. Sitelli 
is of severe and saturnine countenance, while 
Ravenna is quite the reverse, being rotund of 
form, and pleasant in demeanour. 

Ravenna [somewhat anxiously]. Well, Cardi- 
nal? 

Sitelli [moodily]. You have won, 

Ravenna. Then His Holiness has granted an 

extraordinary audience with my young friend? 

5 



6 THE DISPENSATION 

Sitelli. He has, against my earnest protesta- 
tion. 

Ravenna. And you continued to oppose it 5 
after the long and painful conference which de- 
cided nothing? 

Sitelli. I did, earnestly and vehemently. 
[Down to L. C] 

Ravenna. Since a tie vote of the Cardinals left 
the matter of Joseph Vestani's appeal entirely in 
the hands of the Holy Father, may I ask why you 
still continue your opposition? 

Sitelli. Must I answer now, or will you He so 
polite as to first grant me a reply to a question of 
my own? 

Ravenna [obsequiously]. Politeness, my dear 
Cardinal, is so often a cloak for duplicity, that I 
shrink from being so impolite as to cavil at any 
wish of my superior. [This speech is finished by 
a low bow.] 

Sitelli [eyemg him severely]. That's. duplicity. 

Ravenna [smUmg]. Am I so transparent then? 
Ah, well! Had I been perfect, who knows but I 
might have been mentioned for the Holy See my- 
self? 

Sitelli [proudly]. I have been so mentioned 
twice. 

Raverma. I remember that distinctly. But 
then you are perfect, my lord Cardinal. 

Sitelli [with a searching glance]. I remember 
something else. 



THE DISPENSATION ffl 

Ravenna. Something that I may hear? 

SiieUi. Oh, yes. I was not perfect enough 
then for you to support me. 

Ravenna [as if taken unawares, and trying to 
change the subject]. Er — the question you 
spoke of just now, — what was it? I will answer 
without reserve. 

Sitelli. Who is this young and obscure Mis- 
sionary Priest from Roumania, who can secure a 
private audience with His Holiness, when older 
and better servants of the Church have been 
turned away? 

Ravenna. Older perhaps, but there are no bet- 
ter servants of the Church than Joseph Vestani, 
my Lord Cardinal. And, he is not obscure. 

Sitelli. How do you know all that? 

Ravenna. So many questions without one re- 
ply, cannot but confuse us both. Joseph Vestani 
of Bukharest, scion of a noble Catholic family, 
which for centuries, has squandered its millions 
and shed its blood in the service of the Cross, for- 
sook the religion of his fathers, renounced power, 
political distinction, military glory, the lust of 
the flesh and the lures of fame, to become a priest 
of the Church. 

Sitelli. Lusts of the flesh? He has them now. 

Raverma. Oh, undoubtedly. That is why he 
seeks a dispensation, whereby he may exchange 
the vows and vestments of a priest for those of the 
bridegroom. 



8 THE DISPENSATION 

Sitelli. Mirabile dictu! And you a confiden- 
tial member of the Papal household, actually ap- 
proved of it ! 

Ravenna. Just as sincerely as I dared to re- 
gret the last dispensation, permitting two divorced 
people to marry. 

Sitelli. The woman was an infidel. That kind 
of dispensation was instituted by St. Paul himself, 
and saved to Rome a great and powerful family, 
that otherwise might have united itself with the 
Greek Church. 

Ravenna. And to have denied it, would have — 
temporarily at least — cast a stigma over the lives 
of two children. 

Sitelli [with much indignation]. No stigma 
can possibly attach to any act of the head of the 
Church of Rome. 

Ravenna. I did not say so. 

Sitelli. You implied it. 

Ravenna. Come, come, come, be just, — I did 
not do that either. What I meant was — 

Sitelli. I'll listen to no more of your heresies ! 
[Goes up stage L. and turns.] Such worldliness 
as yours has no place here in the Vatican. 

Ravenna [shrugging his shoulders^ and cross- 
ing to L.~\. Nevertheless, the Holy Father has 
seen fit to admit the worldly Ravenna into his 
family and his councils. 

Sitelli. Why one might almost suspect that 



THE DISPENSATION 9 

you had been a victim of the lusts of the flesh 
yourself. 

Ravenna. The lusts, yes, — I confess that. 
But never once the gratification of them. 

Sitelli. I see no difference. 

Ravenna. Because your world-vision and mine 
are reflected through different lenses, my Lord 
Cardinal. There is a difference, broad as the 
range of heresy, between the evil thought and the 
false step. But you don't know that, because you 
have never been, — let me be humanly material 
and say, in love. 

Sitelli. Thanks be to God no ! 

Ravenna. I have. That is why my heart is 
with this young Roumanian in his burning desire 
to be absolved from such a life as my priesthood 
was as the first. 

Sitelli. You regret your priesthood? 

Ravenna. No one knows how little, better than 
yourself, my dear Cardinal. Think you His 
Holiness regrets his? And yet the veins of his 
youth-time days were thrilled by love. You heard 
him acknowledge it in open council, with reference 
to the prayer of Joseph Vestani. \_A bell beyond 
the draperies C. strikes three.] 

Sitelli. Hush! It is the hour announced for 
the audience. [Ravenna hurries off R. — after 
making his obeisance at the altar. Sitelli goes 
through the curtains of the back opening^ there 



10 THE DISPENSATION 

is a moment's pause, Sitelli returns, the curtains 
part disclosing His Holiness, and Sitelli offers his 
left arm. His Holiness rests on SitelWs arm, and 
is led slowly to the throne. Arriving at the 
throne, Sitelli kneels, receives the Papal blessing, 
and then His Holiness sits.] 

His Holiness. You may rise, my son. [Sitelli 
rises.] The young Roumanian Missionary is 
here ? 

Sitelli. Awaiting your august pleasure, Holy 
Father. 

His Holiness. You may announce that I am 
ready to receive him. 

Sitelli. May I not serve your Holiness in some 
way before that? 

His Holiness. No, my son. We have had long 
and earnest conference, then conference again, and 
they availed nothing. I had thought the case was 
vital enough to God and the Church, to have made 
Him willing to respond to our prayers by unfold- 
ing our whole duty before us. This He has not 
seen fit to do, for my council was of many minds 
and He has left it for me to decide alone. 

Sitelli. What else was to be done, Holy 
Father? You submitted the case to the Cardinals 
and the vote was even. 

His Holiness. There were prejudices without 
explanation, opinions without reason, statements 
without evidence to support them. 

Sitelli. Surely, Holy Father, I was — 



THE DISPENSATION 11 

His Holiness. Best perhaps on one side. Ra- 
venna best on the other. For that I have sum- 
moned you both, to consider with me the prayer 
of the suppliant again. Ah, my son, feeble is 
the authority that hesitates on vital things, and I 
am feeble, for in my heart I wish that this dis- 
pensation might be granted, and yet both God and 
my conscience refuse to point me out the way. 

Sitelli. Have we not tried — 

His Holiness. Yes, my son, and failed. You 
may call Father Vestani. [Sitelli kneels, receives 
the Papal blessing, rises, and backs humbly across 
to R. C. when he makes obeisance to the altar and 
disappears through the curtains R. His Holiness 
crosses himself, folds his hands on his breast, and 
his lips move as if in prayer. The curtains R. 
part and Sitelli, Vestani and Ravenna enter. 
Sitelli takes his place near a chair up L. Vestani 
kneels near the door R. and Ravenna stands to his 
right down stage.~\ 

Ravenna. Father Vestani, your Holiness. 

His Holiness [extending his right hand with a 
smile~\. Approach, my son. [Vestani rises, 
crosses to the throne and kneels at the feet of His 
Holiness, who holds out his hand and Vestani kisses 
it reverently after having received the blessing. 
As the Pope speaks, his face seems to be lighted 
by a smile of greater encouragement.'] You may 
rise. 



12 THE DISPENSATION 

Vestani. You smile, Holy Father. My prayer 
is granted after all ! 

His Holiness. No, my son. For the second 
time the Council has disagreed. 

Vestani. It is hopeless then? 

His Holiness. Before the Sacred Tribunal of 
the Holy Church, no wavering cause is hopeless 
until judgment has been pronounced. And this 
cause must waver until God in his infinite wisdom 
shall have disclosed to me what is right. You 
may rise. [Vestani rises, and His Holiness turns 
to Sitelli.] A chair for my son, Sitelli. 

Vestani [in a tone of reverent surprise]. 
What, seated in the presence of the Pope of 
Rome! 

His Holiness. It must not be Pope and sup- 
pliant now, Joseph, — nor judge and petitioner, — 
but man speaking to man. The Prelate is Nature's 
son again, and asks from one of Nature's children, 
guidance and instruction. 

Vestani. Guidance to where, Holy Father, — 
instruction in what? 

His Holiness. Man to man, I said, Joseph, and 
if there be in your throbbing soul anything that 
may teach me my duty, I wish you to open it to 
me bravely, fearlessly. 

Sitelli. Most unusual, your Holiness. 

His Holiness. His cause is unusual. For the 
first time since I have been head of the Church, her 
Canons and my conscience are in discord. Sit 



THE DISPENSATION 13 

down, Joseph, I wish it. [Vestani sits in the chair 
which Sitelli has placed in front of the throne L. C. 
with an expression of wonderment on his face.~\ 
Speak first, Sitelli, and be brief. Why were you 
so bitter in your protest against this dispensation ? 

Sitelli. I stand upon the letter and the spirit 
of the Canons of the Church! I recognise no 
other laws, least of all those of Humanity, for I 
hold that they are all evil. With my vows died 
the heart of material man, and his soul entered my 
spiritual body, there to remain, until purged of 
sin, it shall be bidden to its seat at the throne of 
God. On this ground I stand, Holy Father, now 
as I have stood from the first ! 

His Holiness [to Ravenna~\. You opposed the 
Cardinal in Council, Ravenna. With more ear- 
nestness, eloquence, too, than I had noticed in you 
before. Why was that? 

Ravenna [coming over to the chair on which 
Vestani is sitting and placing his hand upon if]. 
Because, Holy Father, I do not believe that all 
of Nature's laws are evil, nor that man is neces- 
sarily accursed, because in his God-given weakness, 
one of those laws moves him to waver in his al- 
legiance to those that are wholly spiritual. As no 
man is without sin, neither is he free from those 
weaknesses born of the flesh, and which it is but 
human to encourage. Conscience is the great ruler 
of what is material or spiritual in man. So, if 
conscience tell him that the flesh is stronger in 



14 THE DISPENSATION 






the soul than his allegiance to spiritual things, and 
he confess it not to God, through the ministers of 
God, then he lies to God! On this point I stand, 
your Holiness. 

His Holiness. Neither of you spoke so con- 
vincingly in the Council and yet said more. 
Enough, my sons, I thank you. Leave us alone 
together. \Sitelli and Ravenna approach the 
throne to receive the blessing in turn, after which 
they make obeisance to the altar, and bow their way 
out R. Vestani sits in the chair, his eyes upon 
the ground. His Holiness looks upon him as 
though waiting for him to speak first, and when 
Vestani's eyes meet his, he makes a sign to him to 
indicate that he may speak. ~\ 

Vestani. Your eyes seem to reflect hope, Holy 
Father, just as your words were full of encourage- 
ment. 

His Holiness. Do not misunderstand me, my 
son. My words were kindly only, and my eyes re- 
flected sympathy rather than hope. 

Vestani. My prayer is denied then? 

His Holiness. I have not said that. My office 
has already made its decision. That commands 
me to be unalterably opposed to a recall of the 
vows of a priest of God. But, as I have said, for 
the first time, my manhood's conscience cries out: 
" Be just, humanity too has its rights." This I 
say, Joseph, in spite of the holy Canons, whose 
chief upholder and adjudicator I am chosen to be. 



THE DISPENSATION 15 

Vestani. Holy Father, that is hope. 

Holiness. Again I warn you not to think so, 
I must first be just to the Almighty. 

Vestani. I never dared to hope for anything 
else, Holy Father. I would not exact it if I 
could. 

His Holiness. Then speak freely and with 
firm courage, son Joseph, remembering my first 
injunction: — we are man to man now. 

Vestani. How can one who is lowliest among 
the priests of the Church, presume upon equality 
with the mightiest? 

His Holiness. It must be man to man, Joseph 
Vestani. There is no other way for me to find 
rest for the weary and laden one who has come to 
me. You wish to marry? 

Vestani. I do, Holy Father. 

His Holiness. In spite of your vows of abnega- 
tion, chastity and obedience? 

Vestani. No, Holy Father. I could not be 
unchaste without absolution from those vows,— I 
will never disobey. 

His Holiness. And if I deny this dispensation? 

Vestani. There will be no defender of the Faith 
more loyal or courageous than I. 

His Holiness. You are both, already, my son. 
The Church can ill afford to lose you. 

Vestani. The Church would lose no jot of my 
loyalty, Holy Father, and in the new life I seek, I 
could do more a hundred times, to strengthen your 



16 THE DISPENSATION 

spiritual and temporal power and gather infidels 
under the banners of the Faith. Priests ? I could 
educate them and send them out into the world. 
Churches? I could build them; Soldiers of the 
Cross? I could enlist them and lead them to vic- 
tory. But, Holy Father, I cannot conjure away 
from my soul that haunting voice, which is ever 
near me to warn me that I am only human. 

His Holiness. Ah, Joseph, why not do all this 
as you are? 

Vestani. Would you have me hold to my vows 
through fear? Would you have me a priest of 
God, to preach chastity and obedience, when my 
nature counsels me always to disobey? The world 
has become to me a shining lure from which I can- 
not turn and be true. It beckons me night and 
day, to come to it, to be in it, and with it, and of 
it. Would you have me a living lie ? 

His Holiness. You have said that without this 
dispensation — 

Vestani. I would still remain an officer in the 
army of the Cross. But I have not said that dur- 
ing the minutes, the hours, the weeks and the 
years that stretch out before me, I would not be 
thwarted in my work by the wraith of a memory 
that would be with me always. 

His Holiness. What memory, my unhappy 
one! 

Vestani. The memory of a love imprisoned but 



THE DISPENSATION 17 

not dead. A love whose ghost would never fade 
away though I lived through centuries. 

His Holiness. A love greater than that for the 
Church? 

Vestani. I have no such love, Holy Father. 
But why hold me to the greater one, with the 
smaller gnawing away, fibre by fibre, into the roots 
of it? 

His Holiness. You have not sinned against God 
with this woman, by thought 01 deed? 

Vestani. As I revere and love that God, no! 
My lips have never touched hers ; my hand has 
never betrayed the thrills in the veins behind it ; — 
but my eyes, — alas ! — they pierced the thin ve- 
neer of righteousness and disclosed my secret. 

His Holiness. To her? 

Vestani. Yes, Holy Father. 

His Holiness. And upon that she spake to 
you? 

Vestani. Oh, no, Holy Father! Never one 
word from her. Her eyes and mine spake mutely 
together in the silence of prayer, as she lay on a 
bed of sickness from which she was never expected 
to rise. 

His Holiness. Does she know of this mission to 
Rome ? 

Vestani. The mission, yes, but not the purpose 
of it. She would never have listened to one word 
of what was nearest and dearest to both of us, 
without a dispensation from you. 



18 THE DISPENSATION 

His Holiness. And if I refuse it? 

Vestani. I know that she would consecrate the 
rest of her life to the Church. 

His Holiness. I have said that the Church 
could ill afford to lose you. If I grant your plea, 
it would lose her too, would it not? 

Vestani. Have I not said — 

His Holiness. It would rob the Church of two 
valuable lives, consecrated to her alone. 

Vestani. Yes, Holy Father, it would do that. 

His Holiness. She is too jealous a mother to 
sacrifice her children to selfishness, and where I 
pity most I must be merciless. 

Vestani. You have decided? 

His Holiness. I have decided. 

Vestani. And that decision? 

His Holiness. Must be, that for the best inter- 
ests of our Faith, and that its Canons may always 
remain inviolate, to refuse — 

Vestani. Don't say the rest, Holy Father! 
Not yet, in the name of that Heaven whose keys 
you hold ) 

His Holiness. I have heard enough, my sbn. 

Vestani. Not until I have finished, oh, Holy 
Father, You consented to that, — it was your 
own suggestion. 

His Holiness. But I gave no consent to dis- 
obedience, rebellion. 

Vestcmi. " We are not Prelate and Priest," 
you said. It was to be man to man, and as one 






THE DISPENSATION 19 

man pleading to another whose power is boundless, 
I beg of you to allow me one last question. 

His Holiness [after a moment of thought]. 
The last you say? 

Vestani. The last, Holy Father, and upon its 
answer let all depend. 

His Holiness. You may ask it. 

Vestani. As man to man still? 

His Holiness. As man to man to the last, — I 
have promised it. 

Vestani [coming from his chair to the throne so 
closely, that at times, in his great earnestness, his 
hand touches the arm of it, and he leans almost 
over it~\. Then as man to man tell me this. Has 
there not been a time, when with the impulses of 
youth surging in your heart, and your soul sighing 
for a voice to lure it from its loneliness, you met 
the glances of a pair of eyes that thrilled you ? In 
that hour did not something speak to you in a 
sweet language you had never heard before and 
yet could understand? Did not your heart beat 
the faster to know that it was no longer alone, and 
did you not find the accents of that strange tongue 
more eloquent than any you ever learned, and re- 
spond to it with a fervour that was new to you? 
If she lived, tell me that when you parted her last 
words are not even now burning in your memory, 
and, if she died, will you deny that you never for- 
got the agony that came to you, when the cruel 
clods of earth shut her out from you forever? Ah, 



20 THE DISPENSATION 

Holy Father, can you tell me this ? [During the 
above, His Holiness has become more and more 
deeply impressed by the earnestness of the speaker, 
and at its close, Vestani looks up to see the Holy 
Father's head bowed upon his breast reflec- 
tively.'] Your answer, Holy Father — you prom- 
ised it. 

Holy Father. I did, and it is ready, for my 
conscience has cleared again, and doubt no longer 
clouds my duty. First, — since you have asked 
it, — let me confess to you that there was such a 
time, I knew such a face, heard such a voice, and 
responded with an eloquence that was new. But 
as she died and was buried, so, with the cruel cloda 
of earth, was laid away a heart all dead to worldly 
things. 

Vestani. But can you say that no shadow of 
her memory followed you through the desolate 
years from then until now? 

His Holiness [smiling]. There were no deso- 
late years. A month, perhaps, and then the 
Church, contentment, peace, power. The same 
blessed compensation awaits you now, my san. 

Vestani. Where would my service to the 
Church profit without contentment? Where the 
potency of power without peace? Mercy, Holy 
Father, mercy, pity, justice! [Stretching out his 
hands in an agony of supplication.] 

His Holiness [with some show of asperity]. I 
forbid you to question my sense of Justice, Vestani. 



THE DISPENSATION 21 

I cannot be just to the Canons of the Church and 
extend this kind of sympathy to you. [Vestani 
makes another pleading gesture J\ Enough! 
God hath spoken in my soul at last and my decision 
is formed. 

Vestani. One word more, Holy Father, — this 
one indeed the last ! 

His Holiness. No, my son, you have already 
said more than I should have permitted myself to 
hear. But, for a time, the Almighty awoke the 
man within me, and bade him, not the Pope, to 
listen. 

Vesta/ni. Let my soul and my conscience cry 
out again and again for justice and mercy! Not 
for myself, but the persecuted soldiers of the 
Cross whom I could protect. The armies of the 
Turks are even now preparing to spread their 
power into the West and the North, and unless 
Rome aids it, the Greek Church will fly from them, 
instead of going out to fight them. 

His Holiness. That was your plea in the Coun- 
cil, my son. You could not prove it. 

Vestani. Nevertheless, it is as certain as that 
the needs of the Church in Roumania, Servia, and 
Macedonia, demand this dispensation ! 

His Holiness. I'll hear no more, Vestani! 

Vestani. As man to man you said! 

His Holiness. It is Prelate and Priest now ! 
The audience has ended! [The Pope stands with 
uplifted hand, while Vestani kneels before the 



22 THE DISPENSATION 

throne with bowed head.~] Say to the Cardinals, 
Sitelli and Ravenna, that I am ready to announce 
my decision! [Vestani rises with an expression of 
resignation, backs away from the throne, turns at 
the altar to make obeisance, and then bows himself 
out through the curtains R. with hands crossed on 
his breast. After a moment's pause, Vestani re- 
enters with Sitelli and Ravenna. Vestani stands 
near his chair and the two Cardinals take positions 
down R. C] 

His Holiness. My Lords Cardinal, the sup- 
pliant and I have ended our conference. In it I 
have permitted more freedom of thought and ut- 
terance than any other of my tenure of office. Jo- 
seph Vestani has failed, as his friends in Council 
failed, to show just cause for this dispensation. 

Ravenna [extending his arms']. Holy Father — 

His Holiness. Well, my son? 

Ravenna. Before decision is rendered, let your 
humblest servant urge one more moment's delay. 

His Holmess. There has been too much al- 
ready. My duty is clear and I will perform it. 

Sitelli. But delay now is of vital importance, 
Holy Father, and it is for duty's sake, — duty to 
sore needs of the Church that suffer keenly, which 
compels one who has opposed this dispensation 
from the first, to urge it now. 

His Holiness. And you say this, Sitelli? Then 
must your reason be vital indeed. [To Ravenna.~[ 
Speak fully and without reserve, Ravenna. 



THE DISPENSATION 23 

Ravenna. News has just reached the Vatican 
that the Duke of Plevna is dead ! 

Vestani [startled, but with a face full of hope]. 
Dead! [Each of the four crosses himself rev- 
erently.] 

Ravenna. Killed in battle, leading the Soldiers 
of the Cross against the Moslem invaders. His 
estates are laid waste, his wealth confiscated, the 
Church's most powerful Eastern dynasty is penni- 
less, leaderless! 

Vestani. And do not forget that the influence 
of Rome in Roumania is waning, Your Holiness. 
[There is an impressive pause of a few moments. 
The Pope's head is bent on his breast in deep 
thought, and the other three regard him anxiously 
as if awaiting a decision from him. Finally a sud- 
den inspiration seems to seize him and he looks 
smilingly at Vestani, at the same time extending 
his hand.] 

His Holiness. Joseph Vestani? 

Vestani. Yes, Holy Father. 

His Holiness. Surely the Almighty has sent 
you to me in this hour of travail and tribulation. 
I do recall what I have said. The Mother Church 
cries out for succour for her shattered armies ! 

Vestani. On me? 

His Holiness. On you, Joseph, my son. She 
needs soldiers now more than priests, — what have 
you to propose? 

Vestani. This, Holy Father. Place in this 



24 THE DISPENSATION 

willing hand the sword of the Duke of Plevna. He 
was the only captain of Rome in the allied Balkan 
states, and I would take his place. His daughter, 
now Duchess of Plevna, is the woman I have sought 
to marry. The resources of my family are even 
greater than those once her father's. Unite her 
house with mine in holy marriage, and together we 
can regain what has been lost. Dispensation, 
Holy Father, — the Priest has failed, but the 
soldier can win ! \Vestani kneels at the feet of the 
Holy Father, who places his hand on his head and 
turns to Sitelli.] 

His Holiness. Ah, Sitelli, humanity's laws are 
not all evil and we should not always stand upon 
the letter and the spirit of the Canons of the 
Church. [To Ravenna.] Ravenna, command 
my Secretary to prepare and publish the necessary 
documents. The dispensation to Joseph Vestani 
is granted. [Sitelli and Ravenna Jcneel 9 and His 
Holiness gives all of them the Papal blessing, 
standing.'] 

[Curtain.] 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

A CHRISTMAS LESSON IN ONE CHAPTER 



CHARACTERS 

Fellow Club Members. 



Medford, 

Cutting, 

Sprightly, 

HUXTON, 

Thompson, Club Waiter. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

Scene. — The cosy comer of a gentlemen's club. 
At rise of curtain Thompson is discovered 
arranging the fittings of sideboard. Enter 
Medford. 

Medford. Good evening, Thompson. 

Thompson. Good evening, Mr. Medford. 

Medford. Merry Christmas to you. 

Thompson. Thank you kindly, sir, the same 
to you, sir. 

Medford. Get me a brandy and soda. 

Thompson. Yes, sir. [Gets one ready.'] 

Medford. " Merry Christmas ! " I hope there 
are not many tonight whose lives are so utterly 
barren of merriment as mine is. There's not a 
voice whose sound can break the awful monotony 
of my thoughts. If it were not for brandy I 
really believe I should lose my mind, tortured as 
it is with that wretched picture of hopeless deso- 
lation. 

Thompson. Here's your order, sir. 

Medford. Oh, Thompson, I had quite forgot- 
ten you. 

Thompson. About what, sir? 
29 



30 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 






Medford. I was bemoaning the fact of m$ 
loneliness. 

Thompson. Yes, sir? 

Medford. But I've got you, haven't I? 

Thompson. Much obliged to you if I can be 
of any service to you, and welcome. [Pours soda 
in Medford's glass. ] At the same time, sir, — 

Medford. Well, go on. 

Thompson. You are the richest gentleman in 
the club, sir, while poor me — - 

Medford. No one but a cad, Thompson, ever 
begrudges a pleasant word to the poor devil whom 
Fate has classed beneath him. 

Thompson. That's the nicest Christmas box 
I've had today, sir, and I thank you, sir. 

Medford. Then this could not have been a very 
merry Christmas, eh? 

Thompson. Oh, I can't complain, sir, so long 
as I can keep the old woman and kids in out o 5 the 
wet. 

Medford. Oh, you have a family, then? 

Thompson. I have indeed, sir. 

Medford. How many children? 

Thompson. Only seven, sir. 

Medford. Seven! Seven children! What are 
your wages here? 

Thompson. Forty dollars, sir. 

Medford. And you can keep this family from 
want? 

Thompson. Indeed I can, sir, and God bless 









THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 31 

'em. Countin' in, of course, what the old 'oraan 
gets out of her sewin'. Our 'ome ain't a double 
decker flat, but it's not so bad in its way, and to- 
night not one of 'em's forgot, and we've a Christ- 
mas tree into the bargain. [Handing check for 
him to sign.~\ Check, sir? 

Medford [looking at check]. Did you write 
this? 

Thompson. Yes, sir, why? 

Medford. Call at my office when your month is 
up here, won't you? 

Thompson. What for, sir? 

Medford. I think I may be able to place you 
a little nearer the double decker flat. 

Thompson. Oh, Mr. Medford ! 

Medford. Don't thank me — not just yet. 
Thompson, a man who can support a family of 
nine on forty dollars a month and a little sewing, 
deserves advancement. In the meantime, — 
[Raising his glass. ~\ May your little family never 
know a Christmas that is not a merry one, and 
may no cloud ever darken your hearthstone. 
[Empties his glass and pours out more liquor.] 

Thompson. Thank you, sir. The same to you 
and many of 'em. 

Medford. Another bottle of soda, please. 
[Finishes his drink and sighs. ~\ 

Thompson. Yes, sir. [Goes to sideboard for 
more soda and looks at Medford.] The next 
member that calls him " Moody Medford " will 



32 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

have something cuttin' said to him if I looses my 
job. [Enter Cutting.] 

Cutting. Nobody in the club? 

Thompson. Only Mr. Medford, sir. 

Cutting. And he gives me the willies. Bring 
me a highball of Scotch — plenty of ice. [Goes 
to a table L. Thompson serves Medford with an- 
other bottle of soda, and Cutting speaks across 
the room to him.~\ Have something, Mr, Med- 
ford? 

Medford. No, thank you. Thompson is just 
serving me. [Pours brandy and soda. Thomp- 
son goes up stage to fill Cutting's order.] 

Cutting [to himself, looking over at Medford]. 
What can be the mystery of that fellow's life? 
He controls millions and yet no one has ever seen 
a smile on his face. [Thompson serves him. A 
call bell rings outside, and Thompson hurries out.] 
Here we go. [Raises his glass toward Medford.] 
Here we go, Mr. Medford. 

Medford [raising his glass]. Permit me to 
wish you a — 

Cutting. Not a Merry Christmas. Merry 
hell would be nearer the truth. 

Medford. Either condition is entirely under 
your own control, Mr. Cutting. 

Cutting. It is, eh? Have you been down on 
the Street? 

Medford. The slump cost me nearly two hun- 
dred thousand. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 33 

Cutting. Well, it hasn't made you any merrier, 
has it? If it has you manage to conceal the fact 
most ingeniously. 

Medford. Stock gambling is only a diversion, 
and whether I win or lose the impression on my 
temperament is precisely the same. 

Cutting. A peculiar temperament, too, if 
you'll pardon my saying so. 

Medford. Yes, I know that. It is a misfor- 
tune — a disease — a curse, if you will, but I 
cannot control it. 

Cutting. Why then did you assure me that my 
moods are under my control? 

Medford. You have a home and a wife. Your 
two daughters are among the most favoured 
belles of society. 

Cutting. What have they to do with it? 

Medford. The answer is only too obvious I 
think. 

Cutting. Why then did you break your en- 
gagement with my daughter, if a wife and family 
are so essential to one's happiness ? 

Medford. Because there would have been no 
family. 

Cutting. How could you know that? 

Medford. We discussed it ! 

Cutting. And you broke with her for that? 

Medford. For only that. 

Cutting. Great God! If your marriage must 



34 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

depend upon childbirth your chase after a wife k 
going to be a long one now-a-days. 

Medford. Then I shall never marry again. 

Cutting. My dear fellow, what time has a 
beautiful and brilliant woman with a position in 
society to maintain, for the care of a lot of brats ? 

Medford. No woman, Mr. Cutting, however 
beautiful or brilliant — who would place the bar- 
rier of social distinction between her womanhood 
and her " brats " as you call them — could ever 
retain my respect, and without that I would not 
marry an Empress. [Enter Thompson.'] 

Cutting. Give me some more ice, Thompson. 

Thompson. Yes, sir. [Goes to sideboard and 
gets ice, and fills Cutting's glass. ] 

Cutting. Ton my soul, Medford, it seems ut- 
terly impossible for you and me to have ten min- 
utes' conversation together without a wrangle. 
Best have nothing to say to each other at all. 

Medford. With all my heart. More soda, 
Thompson. 

Thompson. With pleasure and 'appiness, if I 
may say so, Mr. Medford. [Serves him with ice.] 

Cutting. There's no one so hopeless as the 
man with theories. 

Medford. Except him who has none at all. 
[Enter Huxton, a brisk, healthy man of sixty-five. 
He carries a lot of packages.] 

Huxton. Here, Thompson, take my dunnage, 
will you? 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 35 

Thompson. Yes, sir. [Relieves him of bun- 
dles.] 

Huxton. Gee whizzle! This is playing Santa 
Claus with a vengeance. My coppers are all 
warpt'd from the alternating currents of the icy 
struts and the torrid toy stores. Somebody give 
me a drink for God's sake. 

Medford. Take Mr. Huxton's order, Thomp- 
son. 

Huxton. No, no, what you've got there is good 
enough for me. Just a bottle of soda, Thompson. 
[Thompson brings soda.] 

Cutting. What were you doing in toy stores? 

Huxton. Now, you didn't suppose I was buy- 
ing mowing machines, did you? 

Cutting. I thought you were Field Marshall 
of the Alimony army. 

Huxton. I am, but that shouldn't affect the 
children. 

Medford. That's true, — they were not to 
blame. 

Cutting. They side with their mother appar- 
ently. 

Huxton. Why shouldn't they? The young 
rascals, if they didn't I'd disinherit the whole 
blooming quintette. 

Cutting. That's what I'd do if my children 
were to decide against me. I'll give odds that it 
was the fault of the woman. It always is, — come 
to sift the family secrets. 



S6 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

Huxton. You must excuse me, Cutting, if I 
decline to discuss the secrets of my late lamented 
hearthstone in my club. Legally the fault was 
mine, so why reach further? Served me good 
and right anyway. 

Cutting. Why? 

Huxton. Why for letting myself get caught. 
[Raises glass.'] Well! A Merry Christmas to 
my blasted fireside, my broken wedding ring, and 
the five boys ! 

Medford. Huxton, how can you jest over so 
serious a subject? 

Huxton. Why, bless your dear old brooding 
heart, Medford, it's not serious. You should 
have seen them all tonight. Happy as Dutchmen 
on a spree, and it added ten years to my rascally 
old life to see them so. 

Medford. But to be separated from your wife 
and children! 

Huxton. That's where you're wrong. I'm not 
separated at all. There's a decree and all that, 
but we're the best of friends. We have no quar- 
rels, no spats, no nagging. I can do as I please, 
and whenever one of the boys gets into mischief 
she consults me over the telephone. Then when 
Christmas comes I load up with presents, pull the 
latchstring of my once matrimonial roof tree, and 
— we have a whooping time. 

Medford. You are on your way there now? 

Huxton. No. Second trip. My first selec- 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 37 

tions did not seem to be just what were wanted, 
so I went for a second load that would be more 
academic and less noisy. A dear little woman who 
loves her lord was proving it in the flat above, 
and we had to be quiet. Young Sprightly — 
member of the club here — his first baby is arriv- 
ing tonight. 

Medford. Some champagne, Thompson! 

Thompson. With the greatest pleasure, sir. 
[Thompson hurries off.] 

Medford. I want to drink long life to the new 
baby, eternal happiness to its mother, and pros- 
perity to the manly young fellow whom fortune 
has kissed tonight. 

Cutting. Whom Fortune has kissed? 

Huxton. Why, of course. Didn't it? 

Cutting. Why, he hasn't three thousand a 
year. [Re-enter Thompson with champagne and 
glasses.'] 

Medford. Thompson here hasn't five hundred 
and he has — how many children, Thompson ? 

Thompson [serving the wine]. Only seven, sir, 
bless their 'earts. 

Cutting. And all of them on the verge of star- 
vation. 

Thompson [stiffly']. I'm sorry you're a mem- 
ber, sir, and me a servant. [Enter Sprightly 
exultantly.] 

Sprightly, A Merry Christmas to all of you, 
gentlemen, and if it's as merry as mine you are the 



38 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

happiest men in the world. You don't know how 
glad I am to find you here. I was afraid the club 
would be deserted with not a single friend to tell 
it to. 

Huxton. Well, why don't you tell it then? 

Sprightly. Some champagne, Thompson. 
That's all I can say till I've had a drink. 

Huxton. The champagne's already ordered, 
and for the same commendable .object. Come, 
what is it — boy or girl? 

Sprightly. Both ! 

Huxton. Gee flip! Not twins? 

Sprightly. It does seem too good to be true, 
but I tell you I've had them in my arms. Two 
little mites like pink pearls and not much bigger 
than bottles of wine. 

Medford. My boy, I congratulate you. 

Sprightly. I thought you would be glad to 
hear, for you were the only one of our friends who 
was good enough to predict that our marriage 
could be a happy one. 

Huxton. No, he wasn't, I predicted it. Every 
marriage is happy for a time. Even mine was the 
very perfection of bliss until — well, never mind. 
But I want to drink my congratulations and this 
wine is getting flat. [Raising his glass.] The 
babies. 

Sprightly and Medford. The babies. [These 
three drvrik — Cutting remaining silent. ~\ 

Sprightly. But how horrible it was! I never 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 39 

knew what the name of Mother meant until to- 
night, when that brave little girl was opening my 
eyes for the first time. And when it was all over 
she drew me to her and said : " Don't cry, dear, — 
it wasn't so bad after all." 

Medford. God bless her ! 

Sprightly. After I had been out of the room 
for a time that seemed an age, and they let me 
see those little atoms of humanity that were all 
mine — (and hers) — I bent over them, and with 
their Father's first kiss was registered a vow to be 
loyal to their Mother as long as we both shall live. 

Huxton. We all say that once, my boy, and 
mean it at the time. 

Medford [with much feeling']. Shame on you! 
Will you presume to say that no man is strong 
enough to be true to her who out of love for him 
will endure the exquisite pangs of maternity, or 
brave enough to be proof against the taunting 
imputation of being tied to one woman's apron 
strings ? 

Sprightly. Thank you, Mr. Medford. 

Huxton. But there are times, old man — 

Medford. Given the wife who is a wife — mind 
you in everything that the term implies — there is 
no time when there is an excuse for infidelity, and 
the man who defends it upon any grounds is a 
brute who has no right to be blessed with a good 
wife. [Takes Sprightly 9 s hand.] He'll keep his 
vow, Huxton. 



40 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

Sprightly. You bet he will. 

Huxton. Well, we'll drink to it and hope for 
the best. 

Thompson [who has been listening with inter- 
est]. Champagne, Mr. Sprightly? 

Sprightly. Thank you, Thompson. 

Thompson [pouring out wine] . And if I might 
make so bold as to say — 

Sprightly. You may say any old thing to me 
tonight, Thompson. 

Thompson. Well, sir, my first baby was twins, 
and it was good luck to me for I've never 'ad an 
idle day — ever since. The same to you, sir. 

Sprightly. I appreciate the sentiment, Thomp- 
son, and I thank you. [To Cutting, who has all 
along preserved an almost listless demeanour]. 
Mr. Cutting, you haven't said a word since I came 
in, and your glass is empty. 

Cutting. I've been listening though, and have 
heard no theory which I should not have felt com- 
pelled to oppose. You won't feel hurt if I am 
entirely frank, not to say brusque? 

Sprightly. Oh dear, no. Go on, do. 

Cutting. Your hysterical outburst I consider 
altogether indelicate. Medford's pathetic lec- 
tures on the marriage tie, and paternity, I am 
used to ; but even if I were not, I should not con- 
sider them worthy of debating. 

Medford. That is because you never knew; 
never learned; never tried to learn. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 4T 

Cutting. Ah? And you feel amply qualified 
to teach me, no doubt? 

Medford. Altogether so I am sure. 

Cutting. Then if Thompson will give me an- 
other drink I will endeavour to profit by your su- 
perior knowledge. Go on. 

Medford. May I be as frank as you were? 

Cutting. Naturally. That's only fair. 

Medford [going to him']. Did your wife ever 
love you? 

Cutting. I am not sure now that the question 
of love ever entered into the arrangement. 

Medford. It was an arrangement then ■ — that 
only? 

Cutting. That's all, and an advantageous one 
it was for all of us. [Medford goes up stage in 
thought.] 

Huxton [to Sprightly]. How like Cutting 
that is. 

Sprightly. The dollar mark on one side of his 
life — the minus sign on the other. 

Medford [coming down]. How could a woman 
whose marriage was a simple business arrange- 
ment, bring up her children in a way to lay before 
a father the ennobling glories of paternity? 

Cutting. She never tried. She was always too 
busy with social functions ; I with business. 

Medford. Then I was right. You never knew, 
never learned, never tried to learn. The minds 
of your children, formed by hired servants, learned 



42 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

to look upon their mother as the provider of social 
excitements, and their father as the convenient 
agent who should pay for them. You sneer at 
this boy for his delicious exaltation, Huxton for 
his liberality, and me for what you call my lec- 
tures. And yet your own experiences have never 
qualified you to be either a competent critic, or a 
just judge. Am I too severe? 

Cutting [a little moved]. No, no, — go on. 

Medford. Your veins have never thrilled with 
the joy that comes to him who has wooed and won; 
you never felt the flush of pride that comes with 
the dawn of fatherhood. The scene which that 
young father described to us in the full glory of 
youthful enthusiasm has been a closed book to you. 
You never watched your little ones grow up about 
you, to entwine their natures with yours, and to 
mould their tastes, their fancies, their characters, 
out of the thrills of a Father's soul. You never 
saw the noblest of wives and mothers sacrifice her 
life in bringing one of those little ones into the 
world ; you never weaved every fibre of your being 
about the lives of your motherless children, only 
to see them sicken and die, one by one, cloaking 
every corner of your home with the mantle of 
desolation, and your heart with a grinding soli- 
tude that must be eternal. None of these have 
you ever known, and I have passed through them 
all, step by step, pang by pang. This is the 
mystery of my life which you have so often asked 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 43 

about ; this is the reason why I can enter into none 
of the pleasures that make the lives of other men 
endurable. And yet I would not exchange places 
with you today, for believe me " it is better to 
have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." 
[Sprightly and Huxton brush tears from their 
eyes — a slight pause.'] 

Cutting. Medford, I have wronged you deeply 
and I ask your pardon. Yours too, Sprightly. 
But perhaps it was not my fault after all that I 
never knew. 

Huxton. Come, come, come! This is not the 
sort of amusement for Christmas Eve. Lectures 
and — reminiscences, and — damn it, we've all 
been crying. 

Sprightly. It's not a very Merry Christmas, 
is it? 

Cutting* I never had a Merry Christmas. I 
have grown to hate the very word. There has 
never seemed anything in it to me but cupidity, 
haggling and expense. 

Huxton [to Sprightly]. That dollar mark 
again. 

Sprightly. Tell him what it means, Mr. Med- 
ford. 

Medford. No, I've said enough. Your mind 
is better equipped than mine tonight, to speak of 
the story and the meaning of Christmas. 

Huxton. Make it short, my boy, and — and 
pleasant. 



U THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

Sprightly. Nineteen hundred and twelve years 
ago tonight a brilliant star appeared in the Far 
East, and stood above a stable in Bethlehem. It 
signalised to all the world the birth of a being 
that was to bring peace on earth — good will to 
men. The wise men of the East brought gifts of 
gold, and frankincense, and myrrh, and laid them 
beside the babe, who was to be the founder of 
Christianity. From that day to this Christmas 
has been a day of peace, and good will, and the 
laying of gifts at the feet of those we love. A star 
appeared to me tonight, rested above the little 
Bethlehem that is my home, placed me at peace 
with all the world, and pointed out to me that 
there is no man for whom I do not feel good will. 

Cutting. You were right, Medford. I never 
knew, never tried to learn. 

Sprightly [looking at watch']. Gracious ! Fve 
been away an hour, and didn't expect to be gone 
half so long. But Mary insisted upon letting my 
friends know. 

Huxton. We live in the same house, — I'll go 
with you. Help me with that truck, Thompson. 
[Thompson gives him his bundles.] 

Sprightly. Good night, Mr. Medford. 

Medford. I have a request to make of you be- 
fore we part. It has for some years been my 
custom to share what I have too much of with 
those who have not enough, and I have not made 
my selection for this year. My business has ceased 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 45 

to divert me any longer. Will you take charge 
of it for me? 

Thompson [at Cutting 9 s shoulder]. Didn't I 
say them twins 'ud bring good luck, sir? 

Sprightly. Mr. Medford, it seems too good to 
be true. 

Medford. Do you accept? 

Sprightly. Accept! Mr. Medford, if I say it 
myself, you will never regret it. But if they will 
let us in, won't you come home with me and tell 
Mary? 

Medford. Some other time, perhaps — not to- 
night. 

Sprightly. Well anyway let me show you the 
babies. 

Huxton. Yes, show us your babies, and on the 
way upstairs I'll show you mine. 

Sprightly [to Medford]. Will you come? 

Medford. I will. [Taking his hand and look- 
ing into his eyes.] Who knows but that in these 
little ones of yours I may find some compensation 
for the two I lost? 

Sprightly. We'll have to consult Mary about 
that. 

Huxton. And if Mary objects I'll have the 
late Mrs. Huxton compensate you with a few of 
ours. 

Sprightly [to Cutting], Will you come, Mr. 
Cutting? 



46 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

Cutting. Thank you, no. I have a business 
engagement. 

Sprightly. Good night, then. Merry Christ- 
mas to you. 

Cutting. Thank you. [Sprightly and Med- 
ford hurry off.] 

Huxton [to Cutting~\. Can't you rub out the 
dollar marks for once, old man? 

Cutting. No, I'm afraid they're stamped on 
my nature, indelibly as tattoo. 

Huxton. Oh, well, it's up to you, old man. 
Merry Christmas all the same. [Huxton goes 
out, and Thompson, clearing away the table the 
others have just left, looks over at Cutting, ,] 

Thompson. He could have a Merry Christmas 
too, if he only knowed how. 

Cutting [meditatively, his head leaning on his 
hand]. There is no Star of Bethlehem for me, 
no Peace on Earth, no Good Will for any Man. 
Is there, Thompson? 

Thompson. If you'll excuse me, sir, I think 
all them things is in one's own 'ands. 

Cutting. You think so, eh? 

Thompson. Yes, I do, sir. 

Cutting. Well, to be frank with you, what I've 
just been listening to has made me begin to think 
so myself. Get me my hat and coat. 

Thompson. Yes, sir. [Thompson hurries out 
into the hallway. Cutting takes a checkbook 
from his pocket and, with a fountain pen writes a 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 47 

check. When he has finished he rises, with the 
check in his hand, and Thompson re-enters with 
Cutting's hat and coat.] 

Cutting. Thank you, Thompson. [Thomp- 
son helps hvrn with his hat and coat, when he hands 
him the check.] And now, I want you to accept 
this with my best compliments of the season. 

Thompson [taking the check and starting with 
surprise.] One thousand dollars! For me, sir? 

Cutting. Yes, it's for you. I thought that a 
man with a large family who could be happy on 
forty dollars a month, was deserving of my first 
expression of regard for the wonderful lessons that 
came with the Star of Bethlehem. [He hurries 
out of the door, and Thompson drops into a chair 
and is looking mutely at the check at — 

[Curtain.] 



THROUGH CHRISTMAS 
BELLS " 



CHARACTERS 

The Reverend Mr. Mayi/eigh. 
Luke Mayleigh, His Son. 
Mrs. Mayleigh. 
The Sexton. 
A Parishioner. 



"THROUGH CHRISTMAS 
BELLS" 

Scene. 1 — The Sacristy, or disrobing room of a 
fashionable Church. Doors R. cy L. If 
possible, a wide ecclesiastical window C, at 
back, through which bright moonlight shines 
through the stained glass. A table and 2 
chairs C. Before the rise of the curtain a 
Te Deum is sung, accompanied by the organ. 
At Rise of Curt am a loud peal from a chime 
of bells. 

Discovered. — Strang {the old Sexton), stand- 
ing C, and several gentlemen in overcoats, 
and holdmg their hats in their hands, stand- 
ing R. 

Strang. Mr. Mayleigh will be here very 
shortly, gentlemen. The Organist detained him. 
Something, I dare say, about the praise service 
in the morning, which is to be very impressive, in- 
deed. [Another peal of the chimes, and all stand 
listening."] How beautiful they are! I seem to 
feel in every stroke the sweet meaning they are in- 
tended to convey to all to-night : " Peace on 

53 



54 " THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS " 

Earth ! Good will to men ! " [Mr. Mayleigh en- 
ters L. I. E. m surplice and stole.] 

Mayleigh. Ah, Gentlemen, it was good of you 
to come. A right Merry Christmas to all of you. 
[Shakes hands with them in turn.~\ 

A Parishioner. Are you quite well to-night, 
Mr. Mayleigh? 

Mayleigh. Thank you, very well, indeed. 
[Looks at him.] There is an expression of con- 
cern on your face — not regarding me ? 

Parishioner. Yes. I thought that during 
your address — 

Mayleigh. I remember. It occurred just be- 
fore I had finished. I stopped, didn't I? But 
believe me, that was only mental — not physical. 
I thought I saw a face in the congregation which 
I believed had long ago passed out of my life, and 
it gave me — a sudden shock. That was all, be- 
lieve me. Won't you sit down? 

Parishioner. No, thank you, our people are 
waiting for us. 

Mayleigh. Good night, then. [Shaking hands 
with each.] Peace and rest to all of you to-night, 
and a right Merry Christmas to-morrow. 

All the Men. A Merry Christmas! Good 
night ! 

Mayleigh. Good night again. A Merry 
Christmas to the wives and little ones. [The men 
bow and go out R. Mayleigh offers both hands to 
Strang.] And now, a Merry Christmas to you. 



i 



" THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS " 55 

Strcmg. Thank you, Mr. Mayleigh. 

Mayleigh [shaking his hand warmly~\. My 
faithful Sexton for — dear me — how long has it 
been? 

Strang. Twenty-five years, now, sir. [Begins 
to assist Mayleigh in removing vestments.'] 

Mayleigh. Is it so long? We're getting old, 
my friend, and we've grown old together, haven't 
we? 

Strang [taking vestments and hanging them in 
a closet L.~\. Yes, sir, but they've been very 
happy years — every one of them. 

Mayleigh. For you, yes. But you must re- 
member many of mine that were very wretched in- 
deed. 

Strang. Yes, I remember, sir. But long ago 
you asked me never to refer to them. 

Mayleigh. I must refer to them to-night, old 
friend. [aS^s.] Strang, if you were to see her 9 
you would know her, wouldn't you? 

Strang. Your wife, sir? 

Mayleigh [sitting at table sadly]. She that 
was my wife — yes. It would not be possi- 
ble — would it — for you to fail to recognize 
her? 

Strang. I'm sure it wouldn't, sir. Mrs. May- 
leigh couldn't change so that / wouldn't know her. 

Mayleigh. Are you sure that she was not in 
the Church to-night? 

Strang, [surprised]. Mrs. Mayleigh! 



56 " THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS » 

Mayleigh. Yes. 

Strang. Quite sure, sir. I was at the door 
all the time, and if she had passed me, I must have 
recognised her. Was it that which made you 
pause in your sermon? 

Mayleigh. Only that. Get me my hat and 
coat, please. I wonder whether I am glad or 
sorry that I was mistaken. [Rises. Strang gets 
hat and coat from closet L.~\ Will you walk to 
the Rectory with me? 

Strang. I will indeed, sir, and thank you. 
[Holds up overcoat. Mayleigh is about to thrust 
his arm into one of the sleeves when a knock is 
heard at R. D.] 

Mayleigh. There is some one at the door. See 
who it is. [Strang places the overcoat L. 9 and 
goes to R. D. 9 opening it. Luke Mayleigh ap- 
pears and stands just inside the door.~\ 

Strang. A gentleman, sir. 

Luke. Mr. Mayleigh? 

Mayleigh. Yes. 

Luke [eyeing him with interest']. May I see 
you for a few moments? It is something most 
important. 

Mayleigh. A Church matter? 

Luke. If the mission of the Church be Mercy 
and Charity — yes. 

Mayleigh. Surely you do not doubt it? 

Luke. It is my misfortune perhaps, that I have 
always done that. I am here to-night to have my 



" THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS » 57 

doubt strengthened, or removed altogether! 
[With a look at Strang.] But — 

Mayleigh [to Strang], You may go now, Mr. 
Strang. 

Strang. Very well, sir. Good night. 

Mayleigh [going to Strang. Luke crosses to 
i.]. I beg your pardon. [Taking Strang's 
hand.] Good night, old friend, and a Merry 
Christmas to you and yours. 

Strang. Thank you, sir, the same to you al- 
ways. [Mayleigh coming down to R. of table. 
Aside.] I never saw such a resemblance between 
two people before. [Exit.] 

Mayleigh. Now, sir, I am at your service. 
Will you be seated? 

Luke. Thank you, no. I have been sitting all 
the evening. I attended the watch service. 

Mayleigh. Then you will pardon me if I sit 
down. I am older than you, and have held service 
four times since morning. 

Luke. You are evidently most sincere in your 
calling, Mr. Mayleigh. 

Mayleigh. If I had not been so, I could not 
have held my pastorate for more than twenty 
years. Only a sincere man could have done 
that. 

Luke. True. But has the sincerity which has 
made you the most popular clergyman in your 
Diocese, taught you how to be just? 

Mayleigh [with a moment's enquiring look]. 



58 " THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS " 

That is an odd question, coming from a stranger 
— and one so young, too ! Have we ever met be- 
fore ? 

Luke. Never. And yet we can scarcely be 
called strangers. 

Mayleigh. I do not understand you at all. A 
moment ago you spoke of some doubt or other 
which you wished me to remove. What was it? 

Luke. I confessed that it was my misfortune 
to doubt the charity and mercy of your religion, 
and — [Hesitatmg.~\ 

Mayleigh. Pray, go on. I always insist upon 
absolute frankness and candour in the statements 
of those who doubt the truth. 

Luke. You shall have both, Mr. Mayleigh. 
Have you always been charitable toward those who 
have erred? 

Mayleigh. I hope so. 

Luke. Have you been merciful to those who 
have sinned? 

Mayleigh. It has always been my endeavour 
to be charitable — merciful and just. [Rises.] 
You may doubt my religion, but you have no cause 
to doubt me. 

Luke. Have I not? One question more. 

Mayleigh. Not to-night. If you were a way- 
farer searching after the truth, I would gladly 
listen to you. But since your intrusion here was 
obviously for the purpose of provoking a personal 
discussion, I must ask you to withdraw. 



"THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS" 59 

Luke. Not until I have carried out the pur- 
pose of that intrusion. 

Mayleigh. Then I will go myself! [He is 
about to go toward R. D. vbhen Luke stands be- 
tween him and the door.~\ 

Luke. When I have finished, — not before. 

Mayleigh. Who are you that presumes to 
come to me at this time of the night, and on conse- 
crated ground, to insult and threaten me? What 
is the purpose of it all — who sent you to do this ? 

Luke. I came as the representative of Mrs. 
Mayleigh. 

Mayleigh [staggered]. My wife! 

Luke. Yes, the woman to whom you refused 
the charity of thought and deed in her hour of 
trial ; to whom you denied mercy in her prayers of 
tribulation; to whom you were unjust in the cruel 
penance you imposed. 

Mayleigh. Oh, why must that awful past come 
back to me again, with its heart throbs, its sor- 
rows, and its tears? Why couldn't it down? I 
hoped I had crushed it out of my life forever! 
[Sits at table and buries his face in his hands.'] 

Luke. That was not what you preached to- 
night. 

Mayleigh. You were there, you said. You 
heard — and — and she? 

Luke. Sat by my side, with her hand quivering 
in mine, and the hot tears streaming from her 
careworn face, as you uttered the words : " Come 



60 " THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS » 

unto me all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and 
I will give you rest ! " 

Mayleigh. Oh, don't! don't! 

Luke. Back in the long ago she came to you 
laden with sorrow and repentance, and prayed for 
the rest and peace of forgiveness. You turned 
her out into the world alone ! 

Mayleigh. No, not alone ! 

Luke. I say alone! 

Mayleigh. I sent her back to the man who had 
stolen her from me. 

Luke. There was no such man. 

Mayleigh. I had it in her own words, penned 
by her own hand. These words : " It was all a 
mistake, John. We were never meant for each 
other, and I have brought you nothing but sor- 
row. I have gone never to return, with the man 
whom I was intended for from the first." 

Luke. And after that? 

Mayleigh. Why must I be tortured like this? 
Have you no mercy at all? 

Luke. You had none for her. After that — 
what? 

Mayleigh. In two days she returned, told me 
that her sin had been only one of intention ; which 
in her first hour of absence she had repented of. 
She knelt at my feet, and sued for pardon. 

Luke. And you — what did you say? 

Mayleigh. " Who looketh on a man to lust 
after him, committeth adultery with him already 









"THROUGH CHRISTMAS BEEES" 61 

in her heart." I could not forget that. I could 
not forgive her. 

Luke. But you forgot that even the convicted 
adulteress was forgiven by Him on whose words 
you have founded your religion. " And He said 
unto her, 'Woman, where are those, thine ac- 
cusers? Hath no man condemned thee?' She 
said, 6 No man, Lord ! ' He said unto her : 
' Neither do I condemn thee ; go and sin no more.' " 

Mayleigh [rising']. But you do not know — 
cannot know all of it. In all the years of my 
ministry, no man has ever dared to utter to me the 
words that I have permitted from you. But the 
earnestness of your manner, and an undefinable 
something in your face drew me toward you, and 
I listened patiently. I ask you now to listen pa- 
tiently to me — to my defence. Will you do this ? 

Luke. Yes. [Sits at L. 9 of table.'] 

Mayleigh [walks up stage, turns, pauses a mo- 
ment, then walks down to R. of table]. She came 
into the world while I was yet a child and when I 
stood by her cradle, our parents betrothed us to 
each other. In a spirit of jest, perhaps; but as 
we grew older we took it seriously, and from child- 
hood to youth, from youth to maturity, we learned 
to regard that betrothal of two babies as a bond 
between a man and woman which must never be 
broken. We failed to see, as our two natures 
ripened, that her thoughts and mine were ever 
wide apart, that her tastes and mine were in con- 



62 " THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS " 

stant discord. For a time I had a rival in my 
attachment. A younger, handsomer, wealthier 
man than I was a suitor for her hand. But she 
chose me, and we were married. Then we knew 
that the realisation of our childhood's dream was 
a curse instead of a blessing, for there was no am- 
bition of mine she cared to encourage, no whim of 
hers which my views of life could lead me to 
gratify. If a little one had come to us, the sweet 
bond of child-love might have drawn us closer to- 
gether ; but this one lingering hope was denied us, 
and the breach between us widened more and more 
every day. All this time the rival of our betrothal 
days was constantly at our table and our fireside, 
and my wife's regard for him (which she never at- 
tempted to conceal) was ever a worm of jealousy 
eating away my love and my faith. But I never 
dreamed of guilt in this attachment, until I re- 
ceived the letter of which you have heard; which 
was at least an implied confession of sin, and 
which you seem to think I must have forgiven, or 
else be false to the religious precepts it had been 
my mission to teach. 

Luke. But — 

MayleigTi. Not yet. [Extending hand.] A 
few words more, and I will have finished. As she 
knelt at my feet, pleading for forgiveness, the 
chastening words of the New Testament were ever 
before me, but I blotted them out — my heart was 
stone. I tried to forgive, but could not, and ever 



" THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS " 63 

since then I have as hopelessly tried to forget. If 
I have erred, show me how to correct my error ; — 
if I have sinned, teach me how to atone for it. 

Luke. You ask this of me? 

Mayleigh. I demand it of you, after what has 
passed between us. It has been said: "A little 
child shall lead them ! " You are scarcely more 
than a child, but your earnestness and candour 
have impressed me deeply, and I ask you to lead 
me. 

Luke [aside]. Ah, Mother, dear, you didn't 
know him after all. The story you have told, Mr. 
Mayleigh, is true, but one chapter of it you never 
knew. Shall I tell it to you ? 

Mayleigh. Yes. And leave nothing unsaid, 
however keen the sting. 

Luke. Your married life was hopeless from the 
first. You, should have known that a beautiful 
woman, reared to the frivolities of society, could 
not fail to find the narrowness of the Rectory other 
than a prison. 

Mayleigh. You are right — go on — 

Luke. The story you have told is true — all 
of it — but the letter which she wrote you did not 
reflect all of the truth that was struggling in her 
wretched soul. She had no sooner left the city 
than she repented of her act, for she had discov- 
ered what she did not know before, — that the one 
bond to bring your two wandering hearts together 
had been promised at last. 



64 "THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS" 

Mayleigh. What bond? 

Luke. She had learned that she was likely to 
become a mother. 

Mayleigh. God in Heaven ! She did not tell 
me this! 

Luke. She knelt at your feet with the words 
trembling on her lips, but you would not let them 
out. She endeavoured to explain, but you refused 
to listen. You opened the door of the home that 
had been hers as well as yours, turned her into the 
street, and warned her never to look you in the 
face again, on pain of exposure of the step taken 
in a moment of anger. 

Mayleigh. My punishment was greater than 
even I deserved, but it was just — it was just! 
And the child? The hope of my youth, the regret 
of my old age — it came? 

Luke. It came and lived, and thank God! 
learned how to keep that Mother's life tearless, 
and free from want! 

Mayleigh. She kept my child from me — I 
could have forgiven all but that: The child was 
mine — mine — and she had no right to rob me of 
it! 

Luke. The child was hers, for you had cas£ 
the mother out ! 

Mayleigh. Mine, I say! The child was mine 
according to the law ! 

Luke. The child was hers according to the 
Divine law of Maternity! And it was to evade 



« THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS * 65 

the stern laws of man that she ran away to Eng- 
land, where her son came to solace her in her piti- 
less solitude. 

Mayleigh. A son, you say? My son, and I 
never knew. Oh God, oh God, how I could have 
loved him! How he could have weayed our two 
wandering souls together ! How happj s?e might 
have been all these years ! 

Luke. She sent me to you to-night with this 
message : " Ask him to let me hope that it may 
not yet be too late." 

Mayleigh. You? Why should she have sent 
you? 

Luke. Who could have delivered such a mes- 
sage so well as her own son? 

Mayleigh [starting]. Ah! [Looking at him 
m tender excitement.] My boy! Mine! Mine 
and hers! [Holding out his arms]. Why don't 
you come to me? Can't you see that my old heart 
hungers for you? 

Luke. Father! [Business.] 

Mayleigh. My son! [They embrace. They 
keep the position for a moment, Mr. Mayleigh sob- 
bing on Luke 9 s breast convulsively — then looking 
into his face, both hands clasped in his.] Ah, my 
brave, generous, noble boy ! No son ever made so 
gallant a fight for his Mother's honour. But tell 
me more. How it came about. Leave nothing 
unsaid. You came to the Church to-night? 



66 " THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS " 

Luke. Yes. We read a notice of your Christ- 
mas Eve service on our arrival from Europe this 
morning, and she expressed a desire to see how 
you looked after all these weary, pardonless years. 
You preached so eloquently and earnestly, " Peace 
on Earth, Good Will to all Men," that she hoped 
that perhaps there might be left in your heart just 
a little good will for her, and on Earth some of the 
peace she had deserved and yet lost. [Mayleigh 
presses his hands tenderly.] " Go to him, Luke," 
she said — " after all there is nothing to forgive, 
and only a little to forget." 

Mayleigh. There is nothing in my heart but 
love for her; and on Earth there shall never again 
be anything but peace. 

Luke. Then it is forgiveness? 

Mayleigh. My son, it is I who need forgive- 
ness, both from her and from Heaven. [Mayleigh 
kneels reverently at the table and bows his head in 
prayer. The Christmas Chimes begin again to 
peal out merrily. Luke goes up to R. D. y and 
leads m Mrs. Mayleigh, an interesting and ele- 
gantly dressed old lady — Luke leads her down 
stage to where Mayleigh is kneeling. She gazes 
at him tenderly for a moment and then speaks.] 
Father! [Mayleigh rises 9 sees Mrs. Mayleigh, 
and they embrace rapturously — Luke looking on 
pleased.] 

Curtain. 



"THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS" 67 

Second Picture: — [Mrs. Mayleigh is seated on 
Mayleigh's knee, and he is looking into her face 
stroking her hair — Luke up stage looking from 
window. Christmas Chimes and Chorus of voices. ~\ 



THE AWAKENING OF 
BARBIZON 

A COMEDY-DEAMA IN ONE ACT 
BY CLAY M. GREENE. 



CHARACTERS 



Barbizon, a Poet. 
Guinnerre, a Soldier, 

J- his Henchmen 

Lavasse 



' jhis 
Yvonne Lacours, a Young Widow. 



Note. — As this little play represents no partic- 
ular epoch or chapter of History, the time, place 
and costumes may be selected to suite the tastes of 
its producers. 



THE 
AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

H& — Tlte courtyard and garden of an old 
Castle, perhaps in Britainny. The Castle oc- 
cupies the right of the stage, and has a large 
entrance door, about which is a balcony out- 
side of a window* A high stone nail crosses 
the stage at hack, in the centre of which is an 
arch and ornamental barred gate. Beyond 
this gate is a warm landscape, suffused zcith 
the light of early summer. At rise of the 
curtain, Yvonne Lacours is discovered seated 
on a stone bench to the right of centre, and 
Barbizon is seated at her feet reading from a 
manuscript.] 

Barbizon. " Then, rousing from the stupor of 

inaction, 
And stirred to valour by his lady's scorn, 
He woke to mad impulses, which, before, 
She ne'er had thought could stir his sluggish 

blood. 
So, without even saying, ' By your leave,' 
He caught Madame Coquette close to his breast, 



74 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

Bore her enraged and shrieking to his steed, 
Rode with her to his Castle in a wood, 
And kept her prisoner there, until at last, 
Moved by his rash and reckless impudence, 
She frowned no more and yielded to his suit." 

Yvonne. Is that the end? 

Barbizon. Of that Canto. 

Yvonne. Preposterous ! 

Barbizon. Why? 

Yvonne. Oh, wildest flight of fancy! Sure all 
poets are mad as delirium. 

Barbizon. Then at last you grant that I am a 
poet. 

Yvonne. So long as there are some fools who 
print your ravings, and others who pay their good 
money to read them, what matter if I approve or 
no? 

Barbizon. To me, everything, fair one. Dis 
couragement from you would turn my ink to 
water, my pen to sand. 

Yvonne. You may call it encouragement if you 
like, but your, — well, say poem, — of, — what 
name have you given this latest atrocity? 

Barbizon. How is it atrocious, either in the in- 
spiration or the telling of it? 

Yvonne. Oh, the telling's well enough. 

Barbizon [rising]. Then my poor bantling is 
not to be strangled at its birth. I call it " The 
Abduction." 

Yvonne. No man would dare presume so far as 



1 






THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 75 

this hero, nor ever lived there woman who could be 
so rudely bullied into Jove. 

Barbizon. Nay, now, my heroine may be a 
false ideal perhaps, but not the man. Hundreds 
have been ten-fold more reckless for love. 

Yvonne. Would you? 

Barbizon. I have no horse, lady, — no castle 
in a wood. 

Yvonne. But if you had them, — what then? 

Barbizon. This hero was not fashioned after a 
poor Steward who is dependent, upon his lady's 
patience and bounty. 

Yvonne. That answers not my question. If 
you had them, I ask. 

Barbizon. Well, then, if I had a horse and 
castle in a wood, and if there were a lady who 
had scorned me as often as this one did her lover, 
— [pauses for a moment]. Yes, I think I would 
dare presume even further than he. But you have 
not scorned me like that. 

Yvonne [with some mdignation]. Oh, I have. 

Barbizon. Never! 

Yvon/ne [rising]. I say I have! 

Barbizon. Believe me, you never did. 

Yvonne. Surely twenty times. [Walking over 
to the right.] 

Barbizon [following her]. I have not "pleaded 
my suit that many times. 

Yvonne. Well, then, perhaps fifteen, — ten on 
my oath! 



76 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 






Barbizon [tapping the manuscript with his 
finger]. But never once like this! 

Yvonne. Come, sir, how did I refuse you then? 

Barbizon. Why with a " no " on your pretty 
lips, and a lure in your eyes that said, " But come 
again, teasing sir ! " 

Yvonne. Was ever man so impertinent! 

Barbizon. Thousands. It's always so when 
determined man wooes a coquette. 

Yvonne [beginning now to become very angry]. 
So, sirrah! It's a coquette you would have me 
now? 

Barbizon. Nay, / would not have you so. 
Heaven forbid ! 

Yvonne. Tell me, pray, if you can. However, 
whenever, and in whatever way am I a coquette ? 

Barbizon. Ha! Lady, it would take me too 
long. 

Yvonne. I command you! [Stamping her 
foot imperiously.] Obey me, sir! 

Barbizon. Oh, then, since you insist upou it, — 
the shame be on your own head. 

Yvonne. Shame, sir, shame? 

Barbizon. Why, there should be shame at your 
very perversity of mind. How are you a coquette? 
In every way. When? Always. In what? Ev- 
erything. When you bid me good morning, your 
eyes flash wicked, mischievous shafts at me ; when I 
lift you into your saddle there's devilish coquetry 
in the voice that thanks me ; if you condescend to 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 77 

bid me to dinner when you are lonely, you smile 
archly with the soup, tell me of your loneliness 
with the roast, and smirk coyly over every stage 
of dessert and coffee. 

Yvonne [her anger still rising]. Smirk! You 
impertinent, — smirk ! 

Barhizon. Like a schoolgirl with her first calf 
lover. And at bedtime — 

Yvonne. Stop! Only Heaven knows what 
you'll accuse me of by bedtime. You shall insult 
me no longer,— nay, not even serve me longer. 
I'll get another Steward. 

Barhizon. You could not. There's not an- 
other poor gentleman in all Britainny, who could 
abide your shifting humours. 

Yvonne [her temper now at its height]. A 
Spitfire, eh? A common scold! 

Barhizon. Ah, no common one, believe me. 

Yvonne. A vixen, — a termagant! 

Barhizon. Ay, all four, — God forgive you ! 

Yvonne. Leave my sight! 

Barhizon. Nay, I would not rob you of that. 

Yvonne. Leave my house! 

Barhizon. Gladly, for without you I would not 
have it for a gift. 

Yvonne [pointmg]. There's the gate! 

Barhizon. I've often noticed it. Rude, gro- 
tesque, villainous. Who ever designed it? 

Yvonne. Open it and take the road at once. 
Anywhere, so long as it is far from here. 



78 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

Barbizon. Ah, lady, the road to you I had 
far rather leave where it is. 

Yvonne. Another word of this tap-room wit 
and I'll call my lackeys ! 

Barbizon. You have none. You discharged 
every idle varlet of them this morning. 

Yvonne. Ah! [Shrieking with rage, she sinks 
upon the seat and weeps hysterically.] 

Barbizon. Thank Heaven, it's all over. 

Yvonne. What's all over? 

Barbizon. When woman weeps she surrenders. 

Yvonne. You shall see that I have not sur- 
rendered. I'll waste no more words with you — 
go, go, go ! 

Barbizon {resolutely'] . No, — no — no ! 

Yvonne [changing her manner to that of plead- 
ing sweetness]. Please go, Barbizon. 

Barbizon. That's better — much better, and 
so, farewell. [He turns toward the gate, when 
Cottier and Lavasse appear outside. Cottier, who 
is very fat, carries the carcass of a stag on his 
shoulders, while Lavasse, who is very small, and 
thin, carries a wicker hamper.] You have visitors. 

Yvonne. Call my gatekeeper. 

Barbizon. You have none. You discharged 
him. 

Yvonne. Can you not open it? [Coitier 
knocks at the gate.] 

Barbizon. Easily, but you've not asked me. 

Yvonne. Open the gate! 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 79 

Barbizon. I must not be commanded. I'm dis- 
charged, too. 

Yvonne [very suavely]. Don't keep my vis- 
itors waiting. Please open the gate, Barbizon. 

Barbizon. Much better again. [Goes to the 
gate and opens it 9 smiling with good humour. 
Coitier and Lavasse enter 9 the former staggering 
under the weight of the stag he is carrying. Ar- 
riving at centre of the stage, he drops it with a 
sigh of relief.] 

Coitier. Whew! It's nearly time in all con- 
science. If that stag weighs not more than I, I'll 
swallow it without cooking or seasoning. 

Yvonne. What is it, my good man? 

Coitier. Why, lady, slim Lavasse here carries 
nothing but a hamper, that a puny child would 
not stagger under, whilst poor Coitier, already 
groaning under the weight of his own fat, is com- 
pelled to shoulder this. [Pointing to the stag.] 

Barbizon. The lady would know the purpose of 
your coming. Your name is Coitier, you say? 

Coitier. Ay, Jacques Coitier, companion and 
Lieutenant to Colonel Guinnerre, who presents as- 
surance of his profound regard, and prays that 
the lady Yvonne accept as a gift this appetizing 
trophy of the chase. 

Barbizon [aside, showing signs of jealousy], 
Guinnerre ! 

Lavasse. Likewise, lady, these silks and laces, 
— spoils from the last incursion into Spain. [He 



80 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

places the hamper beside her, opens it, and she 
looks into it with much interest.] 

Yvonne. And even in the face of battle he 
thought of me ! 

Lavasse. In battle or bivouac, lady, you never 
leave his thoughts. 

Coitier. Nor anything else. Heart, brain, 
soul and body are all gone out to you, and were 
their mistress — forgive me — not so beautiful, I 
could almost say I'm sick of hearing her very name. 

Yvonne [acknowledging the compliment with a 
bow, and looking into the hamper\. Rare treas- 
ures every one of them. Look, Barbizon. 

Barbizon [petulantly]. I'm not a judge of 
laces. 

Yvonne. But these priceless fabrics — 

Barbizon. Loot is always so, beyond cost or 
tribute. He stole them in Spain and smuggled 
them into France. 

Coitier. He'll tweak you by the nose when I 
tell him that. 

Barbizon. I'll do worse for yours unless you 
take that offending carcass to the kitchen. 

Yvonne. Call my cook, Barbizon. 

Barbizon. You have no cook. 

Yvonne. In that case you — 

Barbizon. Oh, no! You discharged me some 
time ago. 

Coitier. We're not so proud. We'll remove it 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 81 

if it offend this gallant with the sensitive nose. 
Come, Lavasse, it's your turn now. 

Lavasse. Nay, I caught a lumbago here last 
night. [Puttmg his hand to a shoulder]. But 
I'll help you. 

Coitier. Come on, shirking swine! I'm glad 
even to get that much from you. [Lavasse assists 
him in lifting the stag to his shoulders, and he 
struggles with it over toward the door of the castle, 
followed by Lavasse! He then turns toward Bar- 
bizon.] Offensive, eh? He'll tell that gentle and 
sensitive nose of yours another story when he's 
roasted. [Lavasse and Coitier enter the castle.] 

Yvonne. Now sirrah, for you. 

Barbizon. No. For me nothing but farewell. 

Yvonne. Where are you going? 

Barbizon. You have commanded me to take the 
road and I obey. I wish you joy of the hermit life 
you have chosen. [Going up to the gate.] 

Yvonne. Will you leave me, a defenceless 
woman, alone in this great cheerless castle with no 
one near me but those dreadful bravos? 

Barbizon. It was your command, lady. 

Yvonne. Then I recall it. Remain. 

Barbizon. For one thing only will I remain. 
[Coming down.] 

Yvonne. I listen. 

Barbizon. That I become your husband. 

Yvonne. I have no wish to marry, Barbizon. 



82 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

Barbizon. To marry Barbizon, no. Would 
you accord Guinnerre the same reply? 

Yvonne. I cannot say, — perhaps not. 

Barbizon. Why should you not? Tell me 
that. 

Yvonne. I will then. Woman admires the arm 
that is strong, the heart that is brave, the nature 
that is reckless. Guinnerre has all of these. A 
man of courage; a hero who has braved death a 
hundred times; a soldier captain who has won 
scores of great battles, while you, — Ha, ha, ha ! 
Poor Barbizon! 

Barbizon [bitterly and with warmth]. Ay, 
poor Barbizon. Poor, indeed. What is Barbi- 
zon? Only what your fickle temper has made him. 
That is all, Yvonne Lacours. Your lackey, your 
equerry, your gardener and your gatekeeper. 
Your cook, your scullery wench, your laundress 
and your lady's maid. I do not like the work, — I 
have no time for half of it, and so, leave your serv- 
ice. 

Yvonne. I beg of you stay. You are none of 
these, but my faithful steward and adviser. 

Barbizon. Faithful always, and efficient, too, 
was I not ? 

Yvonne. I could trust no one else in your office. 
Positively, I refuse to exist here without you, 
Barbizon. 

Barbizon. You refuse to marry me. I will not 
exist here without that. Learn now what I have 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 83 

never told you before. I became Steward of your 
estates. Because my poverty demanded it? Ah, 
no, Yvonne Lacours. It was because your witch's 
smile lured me here, away from my castle in a wood, 
that is no meaner than this of yours. But I was 
tempted and bound myself to you to be near you ; 
to show that in time I might prove myself worthy 
of a higher and holier place in your service and 
your heart. Well, I have failed 1 . 

Yvonne. In one thing only, my Barbizon. 
Have I not often told you of that? You write 
wondrous tales, full of mighty deeds of valour and 
yet perform none. You wear a sword that I have 
never known to leave its sheath, and when you 
were called into the field to fight for the honour of 
Britainny, you paid another to march in your 
place and bleed for you. 

Barbizon [jealously.] But Guinnerre — 

Yvonne. Is everything that you are not, or I 
would have been yours long ago. 

Barbizon. Ha, ha! I thought you but a co- 
quette and hoped on, because coquetry is an 
ephemeral thing that dies of its own appetites, like 
too many sweets make children ill. But you were 
worse than that. An idol worshipper blind to the 
shams of romance; a gullible weakling who seeks 
no ideals save on the fields of cruel conquest ; who 
mistakes bravado for worth and fustian for man- 
hood. Such a woman, lady, has no charm for me, 
and I revoke my pledge to win you. 



84 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

Yvonne [pleadingly]. Ah, Barbizon! 

Barbizon. No, all is ended now. I will remain 
as your protector if you need that service of me, 
but I have ceased to be your lover. 

Yvonne [as if struck by a sudden thought that 
pleases her]. You are jealous of Guinnerre! 

Barbizon. A moment since I was, but now I 
care not how rudely or braggartly he wooes you. 
[Guinnerre appears outside the gate.] 

Yvonne. He has not tried to woo me yet. 
[Guinnerre knocks at the gate.] 

Barbizon. All in good time, fair mistress. He 
is knocking at the gate now, on the way to your 
heart, and the key hangs by its lentil. 

Yvonne. Guinnerre here? 

Barbizon. Yes, mark how gladly I clear the 
way for him. [He opens the gate and Guinnerre 
enters. He is a good looking soldier, full of 
swagger and bombast.] 

Guinnerre [tauntingly to Barbizon]. So, my 
soaring poet has been promoted to the more im- 
portant rank of gatekeeper, eh? I wish you long 
success in it, but you begin badly, — you're too 
slow. [Sees Yvonne.] Ah, forgive me that I 
jested in your sweet presence, Yvonne. But this 
clod gave me no hint that I was near you. I kiss 
your priceless hand. [Kisses her hand, and Bar- 
bizon frowns.] 

Barbizon. Any orders for the night, madame? 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 85 

Yvonne, No, Barbizon. Your thoughts con- 
cerning orders are always mine. 

Barbizon. I thank you, — good night. [Goes 
to the castle door.] 

Yvonne. Good night, Barbizon. 

Barbizon [addressing Guinnerre, mho pays no 
attention to him]. Good night, Colonel. 

Yvonne [to Gumnerre]. He bids you good 
night. 

Guinnerre. Have I your permission to ac- 
knowledge the compliment in my own way? [She 
bows acquiescence and he goes over to Barbizon.] 
Listen, Sirrah! [Barbizon does not notice him.] 
Are you aware that I am addressing you ? 

Barbizon. Perfectly. 

Guinnerre. You did not seem so. 

Barbizon. Concealment of my emotions and 
humours is one of my most finished accomplish- 
ments, monsieur — I should have said, Colonel. 

Guirmerre. Are you making a fool of me? 

Barbizon. I have no wish to interfere with your 
own fine success in that direction, Monsieur, — I 
should say, Colonel. 

Guinnerre. I've a mind to pull your nose for 
that. 

Barbizon. Refrain, I beg of you. I trust that 
you will not subject me to so painful a humilia- 
tion. 

Yvonne [who has been regarding Barbizon 9 s 



86 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

complaisance with surprise]. No man would so 
receive such an insult. 

Guinnerre [to Barbizon, with great scom~\. 
Poor worm, I spare you ! 

Barbizon. Thank you. [Then hissing between 
his teeth]. But if you will say that to me out of 
her presence, I'll cut off both your ears ! [Hur- 
ries into the Castle and Guinnerre bursts into a -fit 
of laughter.] 

Guinnerre. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Did you hear 
him ? He actually threatened me, — me, Guin- 
nerre ! 

Yvonne. Not he. 

Guinnerre. Threatened to cut off my ears. 

Yvonne. Colonel! [This with some slight 
show of alarm.] 

Guinnerre. Have no fear, I beg of you. For 
your own gracious sake I will be merciful. But 
why consider such trifles in a presence like this? 
Something I have awaited in constant anxiety for 
months. You received my gifts? 

Yvonne. Yes, it was thoughtful of you to re- 
member me. 

Guinnerre. I do that always, fair one, no mat- 
ter what the terror of my situation. For instance, 
when I killed that fierce wounded stag with my 
sword, I forgot my own danger in the thought that 
it might grace your larder. When I gained those 
fabrics by right of conquest, I fought for them 
the harder, hoping that I might yet live to see you 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 87 

wear them. I have grown weary of battle and 
conquest, Yvonne, for long ago I won my spurs a 
dozen times. But always the dream that one day 
I might receive praise from you, spurred me on to 
greater and more reckless daring. 

Yvonne. You risked your life for so small a 
reward as that? 

Guinnerre. For nothing more, — except — 

Yvonne. Except ? — 

Guinnerre. Hope of fulfilment of my most 
earnest prayer to one day win your hand. [She 
hangs her head.~\ You are silent. Is it then 
hopeless? You do not answer, Yvonne. Has 
rumour spoken truly, then, — that you are soon 
to wed this poet-steward of yours? 

Yvonne. No, it is not true. 

Guinnerre. And there is hope for me? 

Yvonne [after a pause, looking into his eyes\. 
Yes, there is hope. 

Guinnerre. Then, why keep me waiting? Why 
not give me my answer now? I love you, Yvonne, 
and if I am to hope, surely you are not all indiffer- 
ent to me. 

Yvonne. No. 

Guirmerre. Then tell me that I have deserved 
and won you; that you will be my bride. 

Yvonne. I cannot tell you that yet, Guinnerre. 

Guinnerre. Ah, why not? 

Yvonne. That you shall know, and you are the 
first to hear it from my lips. I married once, a 



88 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

gentle kindly man, who won my respect and esteem 
but never my love. When he died I vowed that if 
ever I wed again, it must be to a man with a name ; 
— one who has done something greater than other 
men have done for the world and for me. 

Guinnerre. Was it for lack of these that Barbi- 
zon failed in his suit. 

Yvonne. For that alone. Nothing else he lacks 
to make me happy. 

Guinnerre. And I shall lack nothing at all, 
Yvonne. It will be my delight to make so blessed 
a compact. My life risked for yours, with this 
hand the reward. 

Yvonne [letting him keep her hand for a mo- 
ment~\. With this hand the reward. [He covers 
her hand with kisses, and this is interrupted by a 
noise from within the castle. Cottier and Lavasse 
chased by Barbizon, with drawn sword, hurry out 
of the door.] 

Barbizon. Vagabonds, thieves, vandals ! 

Coitier. Help, help, help! 

Guinnerre [rising quickly]. Help from what? 

Coitier. Oh, meagre hospitality! Oh, miserly 
stinginess ! But that I were a guest of this fair 
lady I'd have carved him into veal cutlets ! 

Lavasse. And but for my lumbago, I'd have 
done worse than that despite the lady! 

Yvonne. Explain, Barbizon. 

Barbizon. There is little to explain. I found 
these two trusty henchmen of Sir Fustian there, 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 89 

who makes a business of heroism, robbing the 
larder and drinking your wine. 

Yvonne. And you drew your sword on them for 
this? 

Barbizon. It was but now that you chided me 
because I kept my sword in its sheath. But it was 
a bloodless affray, like to disappoint you, for I 
merely gave each of them a spanking with it. 

Guinnerre [to his men]. And you permitted 
this? 

Coitier. You forget that I am a gentleman, 
Colonel, and this lady's honoured guest. 

Lavasse. And you forget my lumbago. 

Yvonne [to Barbizon]. You must ask pardon 
of these gentlemen. 

Barbizon. With all my heart. [To Coitier 
and Lavasse.] I apologise most humbly, gentle- 
men, and am truly sorry that I forgot my sword 
has a point to it. 

Coitier [with a comical bow]. Don't mention it. 

Barbizon [also bowing with mock humility]. I 
will not again, believe me. The next time I will 
treat my tyro of a blade more leniently and run 
you through with it. 

Coitier. Do you think my Colonel will permit 
so unequal a fight? 

Barbizon. Do you think I shall ask your 
Colonel's permission? 

Guinnerre. Suppose the Colonel were to ask 
your permission to make the next time, — now? 



90 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

Barbizon. In that case I could not be so impo- 
lite as to refuse you, Monsieur, — I should say, 
Colonel. 

Guinnerre [drawing his sword]. Nor I to teach 
you a lesson. 

Barbizon. You can teach me nothing about a 
sword, impostor! 

Guinnerre. Learn something from this, then! 
[Makes a pass which Barbizon guards dex- 
trously.] 

Yvonne [coming between them]. Stop, gentle- 
men! How dare you? In my courtyard, in my 
very presence! 

Guinnerre. Forgive me — he provoked it. 

Yvonne. Nay, you provoked him. 

Barbizon. And did you not see — 

Yvonne. Silence, Barbizon! 

Barbizon. Yes, my lady. 

Yvonne [to Guinnerre]. Go, go, my nerves are 
on edge. 

Guinnerre. Your slightest wish, lady, makes me 
your slave. [To Barbizon.] We shall meet soon 
again. 

Barbizon. Sooner, sooner, for Heaven's sake! 

Yvonne. Barbizon. [Stamping her foot.] 

Barbizon. I forgot. 

Guinnerre. But I shall not forget. 

Barbizon. How good of you! [Guinnerre sig- 
nals his men to retire and they disappear through 
the gate. He goes to Yvonne.] 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 91 

Guinnerre [to Yvonne, overheard by Barbizon]. 
You will remember our compact? 

Yvonne. How can I ever forget it now, Colonel? 

Guinnerre. I kiss your hand. [Kisses her 
hand, bows to her curtesy and hurries off through 
the gate. The stage now begins to darken and 
changes gradually to pale moonlight. ~\ 

Barbizon [going to Yvonne], What compact 
have you made with him? 

Yvonne. That, sir, is my affair. 

Barbizon. You love Guinnerre! 

Yvonne. No, I do not. 

Barbizon. Then it must follow that you love 
me. 

Yvorme. Not altogether. 

Barbizon [taking her hands impulsively in his]. 
Look into my face, Yvonne. Deep into my eyes 
of truth and tell me that again. Look, I say ! 

Yvonne. Not so roughly, Barbizon. Shame! 
Yours are the hands of a bully now, — not a poet's. 
Let me go and I will tell you ! 

Barbizon [releasing her]. There, then. You 
love me? 

Yvonne. No! [With a mischievous laugh she 
hurries into the castle. Barbizon goes over to the 
stone seat and throws himself upon it in deep de- 
jection. After a short pause Yvonne appears at 
the door, with a mandolin or some similar instru- 
ment, in her hand.~\ 

Yvonne. Barbizon! [He does not answer.] 



92 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

Barbizon ! [He rouses from his reverie and turns 
to her.] We were forgetting something. [He 
runs over to her.] Deep sleep and happy dreams, 
you know, never come to me without my music, 
[She hands him the instrument, which he takes, and 
at the same time, seizes one of her hands.] 

Barbizon. Yvonne ! Have you told me all the 
truth? 

Yvonne [taking her hand from his]. Nearly 
all. [Disappears into the Castle.] [Barbizon 
goes up to the gate, closes and bars it. Then re- 
turns to his seat as before, and begins to strum 
the instrument listlessly. Yvonne appears on the 
balcony above the door and calls to him.] Bar- 
bizon ! Louder, Barbizon ! Moreover, that is not 
my lullaby. [He plays another selection louder, 
and, if desirable, a song might be introduced.] 
Good night, Barbizon. 

Barbizon. Yvonne, listen to me. 

Yvonne. I have already. Your playing was 
dull, listless, expressionless. 

Barbizon. Like yours on my heart. 

Yvonne. What say you, — I play upon that? 

Barbizon. Always. Morn, noon and night you 
play upon it, until it has become tuneless and 
harsh like these strings when the Heavens have 
rained upon them. I'll submit to no more of it. 
Man's heart will bear its load of woman's tyranny 
until it tears apart and bursts into rebellion that 
will not down. My heart rebels now, — it's burden 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 93 

has grown too heavy,— good night. [Goes up to 
gate.] 

Yvonne. Good night, but not that way, Barbi- 
zon. You've shut the gate, and if you open it 
again, there is no one to close it behind you. 

Barbizon. Ah, siren, temptress, witch, devil! 

Yvonne. Thou poor child in swaddling clouts ; 
thou foolish boy, thou blindest part of a man! 

Barbizon. You love me, Yvonne, yes or no! 

Yvonne. Both ! 

Barbizon. Fiend that you are to tempt me 
from behind bolts and bars ! Say you love me and 
bid me good night ! 

Yvonne. One of them I will say — good night ! 

Barbizon. And is there to be nothing else? 

Yvonne. Yes, — this! [Kisses her hand to 
him and disappears.'] 

Barbizon [goes up to the gate and looks out be- 
tween the bars'}. What was that compact with 
Guinnerre? I think I see figures in the shadows 
yonder. No, it was only my jealous soul conjur- 
ing pictures out of nothing. But if he should re- 
turn, and dare to so much as place one of his 
fingers upon her hands, I'll unsheath my sword to 
some purpose. [He hurries into the castle, when 
the slip of an iron bolt is heard behind him. Then 
Lavasse appears over the top of the wall at the 
back, draws a ladder after him 9 places it in 
the courtyard, and comes down, followed by 
Coitier.] 



94 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

Cottier. Oh, these lovers ! A pretty mess we're 
getting ourselves into helping this one. 

Lavasse. But for a thousand louis — remem- 
ber that. 

Coitier. Good enough if there's not to be a 
funeral. What would be the use of a marble shaft 
higher than a cathedral, if we had no hand in the 
spending of the money? [Guinnerre appears out- 
side the gate.] 

Lavasse. Be still! Our lover has come. 
[Coitier opens the gate and Guinnerre enter s.~\ 

Guinnerre. A thousand louis for this night's 
work remember, and twice as much when Yvonne 
is my bride. 

Coitier. You haven't twice as many sous to 
your name. 

Guinnerre. But my fair lady has them by tens 
of thousands, locked in the crypts of the old castle 
here. 

Coitier. If in rescuing her from me, you chance 
to prod me in the chest deep enough, what good 
will the whole treasure do me? 

Guinnerre. There'll be no danger of that, — I 
know my thrusts too well. Some blood-letting will 
be necessary, — no more than that. 

Coitier and Lavasse [grimly']. Thank you. 

Guinnerre. Afraid already? Out of the way, 
then, and I'll hire strangers to assist me. 

Coitier. No, no, we'll do it, but how can a man 
talk of having his blood drawn as though it were a 



THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 95 

jet of wine from a cask? [Lavasse places the lad- 
der against the balcony, and begins to mount it, 
followed by Coitier, who climbs laboriously.] 

Guinnerre. Have a care that she sound no 
alarm nor utter a cry, until you have her well down 
the ladder. [Hurries off through gate.] 

Coitier. If the lady should happen to be wake- 
ful to-night, and talkative like my wife, Heaven 
preserve us. 

Lavasse. Amen to that! But listen! She 
snores ! [By this time the men are about to climb 
over the balustrade of the balcony, when Yvonne is 
heard to scream from withm.] 

Yvonne. Ah! Help, help! Barbizon, Barbi- 
zon! [The two men begin to descend the ladder 
quickly, and when they are at the bottom, Barbv- 
zon enters from the Castle door with drawn sword. 
He stabs Coitier viciously, who falls near the steps, 
when he attacks Lavasse, who makes a defence 
with his sword.] 

Lavasse. Ho, Guinnerre! The man has an 
arm of steel! 

Barbizon [attacking Lavasse furiously]. So 
this is Guinnerre's work, eh? [He wounds La- 
vasse, who falls up near the wall, and Guinnerre 
hurries through the gate and engages him. While 
they are fighting Yvonne enters.] 

Yvonne. What does this mean? Barbizon! 
Guinnerre ! 

Guinnerre [talking as he fences]. It means 



96 THE AWAKENING OF BARBIZON 

that this romancer of yours, jealous of me, has 
hired my men to attack you, so that he may rescue 
you and claim your hand. 

Barbizon. Your life for that lie! Take that, 
and that! [Makes several vicious thrusts, which 
Guinnerre parries. ] 

Guinnerre. Not yet! 

Yvonne [seeing Coitier and bending over him]. 
Who is this ? 

Guinnerre. Coitier murdered, or he could 
prove me true ! 

Yvonne. No, he breathes. [Shaking Coitier. ] 
Speak, Coitier, why have you done this? 

Coitier [in great pain\. Oh, mad fool that you 
are, Guinnerre, to lose a good friend for a madder 
fool of a woman ! 

Barbizon. It was you then! [Attacks Guin- 
nerre more viciously than ever, running him 
through with his sword, and he falls up near the 
gate. Yvonne regards the scene with horror.] 
My sword is unsheathed at last, Yvonne. Are you 
satisfied? 

Yvonne. Oh, Barbizon! Where can I go to 
hide away from the havoc I have wrought ? 

Barbizon. There is but one place in all the 
world for you now, Yvonne. 

Yvonne. Where, where? 

Barbizon. Here on my heart! [She rushes 
into his arms.] 

A Curtain. 

RD- 17 



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